The WorldMight

by Cyril L. C. Bussiere

  “Hethens be good,” he whispered to himself.

  “Only a few moons ago I still had the strength to bring the water back down before the pull became unbearable.”

  A chill coursed through him.

  “I am getting weaker.”

  The realization made him feel old. Older than he ever thought he would feel. How he missed his people.

  “Fifty summers…”

  He slumped down, his shoulders feeling heavy. The dimness of the inner sanctum seemed to narrow around him, the soaked cloth on his frail body weighing unnaturally.

  “Without my brethren to share the burden…”

  He closed his eyes onto those thoughts. Only fools wish for what can not be.

  “Things are as they are,” he reminded himself.

  It never ceased to surprise him how after so many summers youth’s ignorance still sprung its foolish pock-marked face in his mind. The voices of his Masters rose against it.

  “Accept what you cannot change.”

  “Know when to yield.”

  “Be who you are.”

  Voices from his past, counsel of the dead…

  Baccus brought his mind back to his breathing. He had to repair the damage done, rebuild what the pull had taken from him. He sat for a while longer, using the age-old techniques of his people to pull energy from the world around him and breathe himself into fullness once again.

  When he was done and the effects of the pull could not be felt anymore, he unfolded his legs. The tight and dull ache in his joints slowly woke up to him. A shiver coursed through him and his wrinkled skin broke into goose-bumps. His concentration fully broken now, he was uncomfortably aware of the chilliness of the inner sanctum and the cold, wet cloth against his body. Legs stretched in front of him, he massaged his knees and thighs before grunting himself off the floor. Once up, Baccus bowed respectfully to the ephemeral statue of Hethens and headed out of the inner sanctum. He passed the large sculptures of the re-birth of Hethens in the Hall of Grace and slowly made his way to his personal quarters on the back side of the temple.

  He reached his chamber, a sparsely furnished room with a window facing the outskirts of Syndjya and the countryside beyond. He dropped the damp cloth wrapped around his body on the floor. Naked, he opened the closet to the left of his small bed and pulled out his temple runner’s robes, a long embroidered affair he did not particularly like. He dropped it on his bed and sat next to it. Dawn was breaking over the distant Black Forest, light struggling to emerge from the night. A cool breeze, blowing across the waking town, ran up Temple Hill, and poured itself into the room, gently caressing his skin into another set of tiny eruptions. Baccus sat there, slightly shivering, looking out into the distance. He was heavy with apprehension. His hold over the Other World was fading faster every day. He had known that the day would come when he would be incapable of even reaching it. What now felt like lifetimes ago, his masters had warned him that no one could handle the true world on their own.

  “The communal consciousness of the practitioners enables the efficient use of the Other World, the Ar-Hal. The more, the stronger in this case,” he remembered old Master Bar-Hi lecturing in a raspy voice. “But more importantly, it allows for the pull to be shared among the practitioners.”

  The pull… the price of manipulation. The Other World fed on life itself. It took in proportion with the extent of the manipulation. ‘The balance of the worlds,’ Master Bar-Hi had called it.

  “The true world gives you great power. And in return it takes life itself. The Gi-Yu, when applied correctly, will allow you to overcome the limitations of manipulation.”

  The simplest of the Gi-Yu techniques primed young practitioners to fend off the pull, steeling them against it to a very limited extent that permitted them to not lose themselves to its initial tug. More advanced techniques allowed them to draw substance from life in their surroundings and regenerate what the pull so insatiably devoured. These Gi-Yus permitted practitioners to sustain for short periods of time the effort of minor manipulations of the Other World. But regardless of one’s experience and ability, any manipulation of consequence spawned so strong a pull that the death of the practitioner was inevitable. That was unless the effect of the pull was spread over many practitioners. One of the most challenging aspect of the Gi-Yu, and the last one taught, was the Connecting. Once a practitioner was able to withdraw inward and contact the Other World, he was to maintain that depth of concentration and simultaneously split a part of himself away from the Ar-Hal and connect it with other practitioners. Baccus had, in his time, spent countless days in group-sitting, training rigorously to connect with everything around him, to sense his surroundings and home in on his fellow brothers’ auras and to eventually become part of the web of sub-consciousness that enabled any one of his people to manipulate the true world and by association the world underneath it.

  “We were so close, all of us.” Baccus thought. “And if not for the Sisterhood we’d still be.”

  His hands closed onto themselves as bitterness rose in his throat like a slow rolling wave hurling sadness and anger in tow.

  “They took everything away from me.”

  His jaw locked tight under trembling lips.

  “My brothers and sisters…”

  He dropped his head as tears filled his eyes. Shoulders slouched he sat there, a lonely, naked, old man in the coolness of a fall morning shaking as much from the chilliness of his bare room as from the sadness swelling in his throat.

  “Let go of it, let go,” whispered familiar voices.

  “Har!” he half grunted, half cried.

  With a small fist, he hit his bed in frustration.

  “How we do roll back to youth as we age.”

  He let out a cheerless laugh and pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes.

  “The Sisterhood is long gone; and there’s breakfast to attend at the castle.”

  Baccus pushed himself off his bed and awkwardly slipped into his temple runner’s robes. Behind him the sun had finally won its fight over darkness and was rising above the Black Forest, spreading its light and warmth over Syndjya.

  “The trusteds assembled last night. King Hedgard will have talked them into his plans. Though, if I know him, and I sure do, he’ll have compromised.”

  He stepped into his leather sandals.

  “Silifia’s not going to like that.”

  Chapter Six

  Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.

  Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age

  Fall Passing Festival, Two days prior.

  Aria lay on her bed in the half-light of dusk. She had finally escaped the hubbub of court. And, after a long, rather strange day, she was looking forward to downing her simple pants and roaming around town with Cassien. The heavy draperies were spread in front of her window and from her make-up table a single candle bathed the room in its faint, yellow glow. Aria knew to wait for the light coming around the sides of the red curtains to recede into night before getting ready. Then it would be the usual cat-and-mouse game with the castle retainers and guards as she made her escape. As she waited in silence, her mind kept returning to the events of the day. Small details unexplainably stood out in her head. Hadn’t the tone of her mother’s voice when she first came down for breakfast been different? How about the sudden change in atmosphere at her end of the table when her dad had been announced? Now that she thought of it, even His Highness Baccus, who was usually so cheerful and calm, had seemed somehow tense.

  “And when dad came in, he looked at mom…”

  Aria tried to recall exactly what she had seen, or rather felt, at that moment.

  “Right before he addressed everyone at the table.”

  Had it been guilt? Or sadness? As if he was apologizing for something. Aria thought back to that moment, barely a glance and yet it had made her unexplainably uncomfortable. Had it been the lines of his forehead that flashed concern or was it the little tremble that went through his left e
ye as he looked at her mother? She could not pinpoint exactly what had elicited worry in her. On top of that, there had been tension all around for most of the day. Even the trusteds, usually so upbeat after a season’s passing meeting, if only for the simple fact that they were done with it, and normally jovial despite being tired to the bone after a sleepless night of exhausting arguments, had been reserved, somber even. The booming laugh of Lord Hevens did not grace the dining room once that morning. And during the traditional inspection of the festival preparations, Lord Freebren who was usually so keen on engaging the builders, architects and artists who were transforming Syndjya for the celebrations and normally showered them with questions, counsels, and praise had mostly kept to himself. The late lunch with the court, served, as was tradition, as a buffet, had been even worse. All of Syndjya’s nobility had been present and despite all that was already going on Aria had to mingle and chit-chat with all manners of lordlings, partaking in mindless banter and gossip when all she wanted to do was to ask her mother and father what was going on. Both of them had indulged their function, entertaining their guests, albeit less jovially than they normally would. Hob was the only one who had been very much himself. He had amused his usual flock of ladies, which Aria found mostly annoying. She was convinced that none of high-ranking officials’ daughters really cared about him and that all they saw in him was a king-to-be. On top of that, they were all so boring. Hob would be king one day and so far Aria really could not picture him in that dignified of a role. Today he had been thoroughly oblivious to the tension that permeated the day, which only further exasperated her. How could he not see what was going on?

  “That’s so typical of him,” Aria thought.

  Lunch had devolved into a garden party in the western inner courtyard. Everyone had assembled around the Lord’s Tower. Musicians were summoned. More drinks had been provided and the afternoon stretched into a sort of outdoor ball. Ale eventually got the better of the trusteds’ mood and then the party really picked up. Even her father and mother ultimately warmed up to the crowd, though once in a while Aria spied them exchanging a quick glance heavy with meaning. As the afternoon unfolded into dusk, torches were brought out, more food and drinks were arranged on large slabs and the party seamlessly turned into dinner. Aria had not been able to find a free moment to talk to her parents, and she knew it would be difficult to do so until the festival was over. More people were going to pour into Syndjya as the festival approached, which meant more meetings, court sessions, and dinner parties to attend and close to no free time for her parents and doubtlessly for her as well. Her dad had been intent on her being more involved in official crown business lately and he doubtlessly was going to insist she assist to most of the upcoming meetings. She was not looking forward to that one bit. Eventually, Aria had excused herself, and found refuge in her bedroom. Rarely had she been so glad that it was located on the other side of the keep, far away from the noises of the ongoing festivities.

  The light filtering around the curtains finally faded away and Aria jumped off her bed. She knelt by its side and pulled a carefully folded bundle of clothe from under it. She laid the bundle on her bed and unfolded the different items: a pair of brown pants, a simple white shirt, some undergarments, a black neck scarf, a roughly sewn, dark brown, leather coat with a furry hood and leather-and-wool, ankle-high shoes Cassien had gotten her a while back. She slipped out of her dress in the rising coolness of night, and she stood naked by her bed, contemplating which undergarment to put on. She found herself indecisive.

  “The blue one maybe…”

  That one was very form fitting. It had a bow sewn on the front of it and short ruffles along the bottom.

  She grabbed each undergarment in turn and inspected them in the faint light of the candle. The red one was a simple affair, a single piece of silky fabric that hung loosely around her hips and stopped at the crease of her thighs.

  “Or the white one?”

  That one was more traditional than the other two. It was made of a single piece of cotton fabric that covered her from mid-thigh to waist. A small cord was sewn in the lining at the waist, allowing the undergarment to be tightly secured. She felt that it should not have mattered which one she wore, but somehow it did. She just was not sure why. She was, after all, only going to go spend time with Cassien.

  “I wonder which one he’d like most.”

  She immediately blushed at the thought and an uncomfortably pleasant warmth spread in her groin.

  She shivered, tiny prickles spreading all over her body and became was overly conscious of her nakedness, of the unfamiliar warmth growing inside of her.

  “What in Hethens…”

  Cassien flashed in her mind again. Random pictures raced through her head; him smiling at her, his presence ever reassuring; the both of them holding hands while gazing at the night sky, the feel of his skin on hers vivid in her mind; him practicing his swordsmanship with the weapon master, bare-chested outside the weapon barn. The warmth turned into a tingling and she caught her hand reaching for the heat between her legs.

  “What am I doing?”

  She blushed further, her face feeling as warm as a hot cup of winter brew. She quickly grabbed the large, white undergarment in front of her and in a rush pulled it over herself and tightly secured it around her waist. She stood there, half-naked, still pulling tight on the cords, having somehow trapped some of the awkward feelings underneath it. Confused at the thoughts racing in her head, for a few long seconds she found herself unsure of what to do next.

  “You’re going to be late!” she eventually snapped at herself.

  She tried to focus on the clothes on her bed but did not quite succeed at pushing Cassien out of her thoughts. She busied herself, quickly dressing up, and forced her attention on the escape she was about to undertake. Once fully dressed, she grabbed her neck scarf, went to her make-up table, and sat down by the lit candle. In its shivering light her face did not appear blushed any longer.

  “Small mercy,” she thought.

  She pulled her hair back into a thick, flat braid that she folded over itself a few times. Then she used a couple of thin, wooden needles to secure it to the hair at the back of her head so that the large braid was not visible when she looked at herself head on. Next, she tied her scarf around her neck so that it covered the braid almost entirely. She inspected her work in the mirror, and, satisfied with the result, she started applying small amounts of lip stain and dark foundation powder, very lightly dirtying her face one touch at a time.

  A few minutes later, in the dimness of her room, she only saw the face of a commoner in her mirror.

  “That’ll do,” she thought on final inspection.

  She stood up and put her shoes on. She mindfully tightened the leather straps securely, in case she had to run -she had to in the past- and slipped in her leather coat. She was finally ready to head out. She cracked open the left panel of her bedroom door open. The torches of the keep had been lit along the wall of the staircase and in the hallway leading to the rest of the rooms on the second floor. She could no see anybody and the hiss of the torches and the distant echoes of conversations were the only thing Aria could hear. The way was clear it seemed. She gingerly stepped out of her room, quietly closed the door behind her and started down the large staircase as silently as she could. Her heart was beating fast in the silence of the keep. That part always got her anxious. A guard could be silently posted anywhere, ready to catch her sneaking out. She reached the bottom of the stairs. No one was by the slow burning hearth. She hedged against the wall of the staircase to her left and cautiously peaked around the corner. A guard was positioned by the keep’s main entrance and was pacing in front of the massive doors. She waited until he faced away from her and quickly stepped around the richly decorated newel post and flattened herself out of view against the door leading to the Corridor of Beasts. She waited, listening to the faint echo of the guard’s footsteps. In unison with his steps, she slowly opened t
he door in increments and squeezed herself through as soon as she could. She carefully closed the door behind her and cheered herself:

  “Almost done with the hard part!”

  She walked the length of the hallway without paying attention to the horrors lurking in the paintings on the walls. She reached the door at the other end of the corridor, purposefully opened it and hurried through. She walked by the two guards sitting on either side of the door without looking at them. As she expected, they barely paid attention to her. They probably assumed she was one of the servants heading out for the night. She suspected that most guards distinguished nobilities and others by the whiteness of their faces. After all, they were the only ones obsessively cleaning their faces only to burry them under white pastes and powders. Aria was immediately hit by a multitude of familiar smells. Cooked animal grease, strong ale, resin, spices, and sweat stuck to her nostrils. She quickly joined the stream of servants flooding from the kitchen areas. Some carried large plates on which rested glistening roasted pigs, deer, and various poultries. Others held trays of almond-and-honey sweets neatly lined up in rows. Others yet carried big pitchers of dark ale that sloshed to the floor in their hurry. Aria walked the length of the service hallway among the servants and soon found herself outside the main keep, facing the northern gate. From there it would be easy to blend with the peasants and exit the castle unnoticed. She parted from the line of servants heading toward the festivities in the eastern courtyard and headed toward the triage area. As she approached the inner curtain, a couple of guards who stood by a colonnade interrupted their discussion and looked at her. Her heart caught in her throat.

  “Keep clam and walk on,” she told herself.